


30 'Brooke!

by zoe19blink



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5793241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoe19blink/pseuds/zoe19blink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 Rock AU! Emma is the head writer for the sketch show "T.G.I.F", working under Rumford Gold. Killian Jones, her childhood BFF, is the diva of the show, Belle is the sassy little wardrobe coordinator, and Neal is the Cute Bagel Guy Emma's got her eye on while she tries to keep up with her crazy, pathetic life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Okay, guys,” Emma Swan said, clicking her pen open as she turned around in her wheely chair. “Who’s first, whatcha got for me?”

“I worked on the clown sketch,” Jefferson said, dropping a small stack of papers on the table. “I thought it would be funnier if we changed the dog to a ferret.”

Emma frowned. “But we don’t have a ferret trainer.”

“Hey, get off my back, okay?” Jefferson said wildly, looking around the table at the other writers for support. “My God, you try to contribute something, and this woman shoots you down like—”

“ _We don’t have a ferret trainer,_ ” Emma repeated loudly. “Now, either come up with some _serious_ ideas, or get the hell out of my writers’ room. Got it?” 

“Got it,” they droned amidst a general disgruntled muttering.

“Good.” She slid her narrowed gaze around the table, then sat back in her seat. “So, the clown sketch…”

Typical morning at SBC. Not enough coffee, not enough sleep,  and barely enough writers to pull a live sketch show together every Friday night. Emma Swan’s life revolved around this set, these fictional characters, the ridiculous actors who _played_ those fictional characters. Here she was, nearly thirty, and the greatest thing she’d contributed to the world was a sketch show where things like “what would happen if Mozart and Salieri went to a couples’ skating rink together?” were legitimate questions. 

It wasn't all bad, though. Not everyone got to go to work with their best friend, and yet, there was Emma—spending every Friday evening coaxing Killian out of his dressing room after his latest diva tantrum; listening to his stupid amateur-celebrity anecdotes about Japanese commercials he’d starred in; sending David, the page, off for his Tahitian coconut water when he got “parched” before a performance. But this show was what they’d been dreaming of since they were kids!  Two fresh-faced, starry-eyed little dreamers, sitting on the library steps while they waited for their mothers to come pick them up so they wouldn't have to ride the bus home, where all the other children mocked them mercilessly because she’d had glasses and Killian said things like, “posh”. This was what they’d envisioned: living in Manhattan, making it big in the world of television! And sure, it could be miserable, and no one respected her, and the executives were a major pain in her ass, and her love life was more like a love coma…Christ, what kind of masochist actually _dreamed_ of this?

“Okay, so clowns come out, do their little thing with the paint buckets, and then the dog comes in,” Emma said, scribbling furiously on her notepad (the phone rang in the background). “Any ideas about how to wrap it up?”

Jefferson pointed his pen at her. “A German wench comes in with an ice cream cone—”

Emma pointed her pen back. “Absolutely not. Anyone else?”

“Emma?”

“Not now, Ruby. Guys, come on, we’re nearly there—”

“It’s kind of important.”

“I said, not _now_ , Ruby! Guys! Clowns, paint, dog! What’s the next logical term?”

“But it’s Ms. Mills.”

 _Damn it._ She closed her eyes, cursing violently under her breath through clenched teeth. “What does she want?” she asked reluctantly.

“She needs you in her office,” Ruby said through the wad of gum in her mouth. 

Emma dropped her head on the table, groaning. “Okay, thank you, Ruby,” she said in a muffled voice. 

“You’re wel—oh, damn it, I dropped my pencil.”

Emma made a noise of disgust at the sound of chairs creaking as all the guys and the lesbian leaned forward to watch the intern bend over. “ _Idiots,_ ” she muttered, pushing away from the table. 

“Hey, Swan, maybe if you did little less shooting down and a little more _bending_ down—”

“I swear to God, Jeff, I _will_ fire you,” she called over her shoulder, already headed out the door. Regina Mills, the head of SBC, was a busy woman who wore important-looking high-heeled shoes; and if there was one thing Emma knew about busy women who wore important high-heeled shoes, it was that they didn't like to be kept waiting. 

Of course, she’d dealt with Regina Mills before: not often, as she hardly had time for Emma’s “little variety show”, but there had been incidents of forced encounters, and they’d all left Emma feeling terrified and extremely nauseated (although, that could have been from vertigo—Regina’s office was one one of the top floors). 

People up here dressed nice, in Italian suits and Gucci shoes…wait, did Gucci make shoes? Or was that Armani? Did they all make shoes? Who made suits? Why was she worried about suits? Oh, this would be a great sketch idea! Let’s see, if Gucci and Armani were fighting about who was supposed to make shoes and who was supposed to make suits…not funny enough, so maybe if they threw a parakeet in there—

“Oh, there you are, Miss Swan. Here, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

Emma blinked, only just now realizing that she’d walked herself straight into Regina’s office. There she was, in all her sensible-pantsuit glory, standing next to a distinguished-looking gentleman with sharp, almost predatory features. “Uh…hi,” Emma said, plastering a smile on her face. “I’m Emma. Swan. Emma Swan. I run the, uh…the thing. I mean, the uh—” she snapped her fingers—“the show, the uh…damn it, what’s it called?”

“ _T.G.I.F.,_ ” Regina supplied dryly. 

“Right! Yes! Thank you!” Emma said, pointing at her. “That’s me, I’m the head of _T.G.I.F._ ”

The man lifted his eyebrows, a condescending smile on his face. “Well, how nice for you,” he said through a thick accent.

“Miss Swan, may I introduce Rumford Gold?” Regina said, gesturing toward him. “He’s your new supervisor.”

Emma’s smile dropped. “Wait, what happened to Spencer?”

“He died,” was the flat response.

Emma gasped. “Oh, my God, I didn't even _know…_ God, I haven't seen him in over a week! I assumed he’d just been suspended for using company resources to buy Asian porn again!”

“No, just dead. Heart thing…or was it the lungs?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Gold shrugged. 

“Either way, Spencer’s gone and Gold is in charge now,” Regina said bluntly. “I want you to show him around, introduce him to your people.”

“Oh. Okay, sure,” Emma said. “Did you—do you want to do that right now?”

The look of disdain on Regina’s face would have sent a weaker man to his knees, but Emma was a _woman—_ and one who had suffered humiliation and disdain so many times in her life, it no longer held any meaning whatsoever! 

“Guess that answers my question,” Emma said with a nervous chuckle. “Okay, well, let’s—let’s go, then.”

Gold nodded and followed her out the door. “So, how long have you been running this show?” he asked on their way to the elevator.

“Oh—” Emma shrugged—“about five years now.” She pushed the button and the doors slid open for them. They stood off to the side as a couple of well-dressed executives walked out, then stepped in. Emma pushed the button to close the doors, and the elevator started lowering them down. After a minute, Gold cleared his throat.

“I don’t mean to be rude, Miss Swan, but what exactly is it that your show does?” he asked. “I’ve been given the information, but frankly, the content is so random, I can make neither heads nor tails of it.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Emma said, swinging her fists together nervously. “It’s a variety show, you know? Just…sketches and stuff. Comedy. Sometimes a musical number. Good stuff.”

“Hmm,” Gold nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds busy.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s a lot of work, but any show is,” Emma said. “We got a great team, so it comes together. I mean, do we have our rough edges, our problem areas? Sure, of course. But the point is, we get it done and at the end of the day, we have a great show that I am only _slightly_ embarrassed to have my name on.”

The elevator pinged open, and they stepped out, Gold trailing behind Emma as she led the way. 

“The set is down that hallway,” she said, flinging out her hand to point. “Dressing rooms and wardrobe over there, writers’ room is actually straight ahead, so if you want to follow me in here…”

Everyone looked up as the door swung open, their eyes widening in panic at the sight of one of the suits striding into their little nest of weirdness. Gold glanced around blandly at them while Emma peeked out from behind him, giving them a winning smile. 

“Hey, guys,” she said. “This is Mr. Rumford Gold, _our new boss,_ so everyone say ‘hi’.”

“Hi,” their voices overlapped.

“And Mr. Gold, this is everyone,” Emma said, flopping her hands at the table. “Over there, we’ve got Jefferson—he takes care of our more _avant garde_ sketches, which is a nice way of saying ‘weird’. That’s Merlin, but we call him ‘Toofer’, because he’s a Harvard graduate _and_ a black guy, so it’s two-for-one…Let’s see, that’s Peter—very popular with girls ages twelve to twenty-four, so he also performs his impressions in addition to writing…That’s Mary Margaret…and Leroy…and Robin…that’s Mulan—she’s also a great diversity factor, because she’s an Asian, lesbian woman, so we’ve got a couple bases covered there…And that’s it, that’s our writing team.”

“And who is this young woman?” Gold frowned, nodding toward a texting Ruby, who was seemingly unperturbed by the judging gaze on her.

“That is Ruby, our intern. She’s…well, gosh, she’s cute, huh?”

“She doesn't get paid, does she?” he muttered back.

“Just in experience.”

“Lovely to meet you, Ruby!” Gold said brightly. Ruby smiled back, giving her fingers a little wave. 

“So,” Emma said, clapping her hands together. “Shall we go on with the tour, or…?”

“Actually, I’d like to speak to you in your office, if you have a minute,” Gold said.

“Oh. Uh…yeah, sure. Follow me.”

Her office was an absolute mess, much like her apartment (and her life), but Gold didn’t make a comment on it. Nevertheless, Emma tried to discreetly shove a few Chinese food cartons off the desk and brush the papers into a disorderly stack before turning around with a tight smile.

“So,” she said as she leaned against the desk. “What’s up?”

“It’s about your writers,” Gold said, superfluously checking his sleeve-buttons. “I’m just going to be straight with you here…”

Emma raised her eyebrows.

“I need you to fire one.”

The smile dropped. “ _What?_ ”

“I said, I need you to fire one,” he said, as if she genuinely hadn't heard him. 

“But…but _why?_ ” Emma gaped at him.

“I’ve got an up-and-coming booked for the show. Permanently.” Gold smiled at her, showing sharp little teeth. “Rory Phillips. She’s a former child star, turned Broadway, turned small-screen, and now I’m going to bring her star quality to this show and pick up its ratings.” He gave a shrug of his head. “Unfortunately, star quality doesn't come cheap, so I’m going to need you to get one of the writers to make room in the budget.”

“You think firing one writer is going to make a difference?” Emma scoffed. “Please, you might as well let me just keep them all… it’ll barely make a dent in that star-thingy-whatever.”

“Oh, I know,” Gold said unconcernedly. “I’m making cuts across the board. I just wanted you to pick the writer, because I don’t have time to go through all their work and decide which one is lacking most in talent. And also—I don’t want to.”

“But…but I can’t just—” Emma looked at him helplessly. “I can’t just _fire_ someone. We’re like a family here, you don’t fire _family._ ”

“Miss Swan, I’m going to tell you something my father told me a long time,” Gold said, lifting his chin importantly. “Give a man a fish, you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, you feed him for a lifetime. But ignore the man on your way to buy the rights to that lake, and you won’t waste any time making a profit off him for wanting to fish in your lake.”

Emma craned her neck, squinting at him. “What does that even mean?”

“It means, sometimes, sometimes you’ve got to step on a few backs to make money,” Gold said bluntly. “Fact is, Rory’s a star. This kid has _got_ it, let me tell you. She’d going to pull in more investors and money than any of your sad little sitcom writers will, so you’re going to find the saddest one and fire his ass.”

With that, he stepped backward toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “It’s going to be a pleasure working with you, Miss Swan,” he said, flashing another business-smile at her. “Good luck.”


	2. Chapter 2

Emma dropped into her chair miserably. _Seriously_? Gold hadn't been here five minutes, and he was already firing people for some stupid little Broadway brat? What was she going to _do?_ She couldn’t just up and fire someone!

Jeff…

 _No!_ she scolded herself, forcing the admittedly tempting thought away. Jeff— however much of a jackass he was—was a good writer and he’d been working with her from the beginning. She couldn't fire him. 

Maybe she could convince Gold to just let her keep everyone, and make room in the budget elsewhere? Maybe they could lose some break room commodities—like straws! They were all adults, they didn't _need_ straws! 

Would straws be enough to cover a writer?

Maybe she should come up with some more ideas, just to be safe.

Although, it wasn't like they had so any break room commodities for her to cut.

Really just the straws.

Damn it. 

Emma let out a frustrated breath, throwing her head in her hands. She had to _think—think, you idiot, think!_ she urged herself. If she didn't figure something out, Gold would make her fire someone and who _knew_ how everyone else would react? They’d shun her, they’d call her names—even more than usual! Not to mention, someone would lose their job, and of course, that sucked, too—

“Emma!”

Emma’s head snapped up as Killian stormed in, followed by a glaring Belle French, head of the wardrobe department. Her heart sank at the furious indignation on his face

“Kil,” she said wearily. “Please, I don’t have time to worry about—”

“Belle is telling me I can’t wear the trench coat for the clown sketch!”

“But there _is_ no trench coat in the clown sketch! God, why does everybody want to…?” Emma shook her head, exhaling in exasperation. “Look, you can’t wear a trench coat, okay?”

“I’ve been telling him that for the past hour!” Belle snapped. “He either doesn't believe me, or he thinks blatantly ignoring me is going to get him what he wants!”

“Funny, that’s also his approach to dating,” Emma muttered. Killian laughed sarcastically.

“Ha, ha, ha—we have a disaster here, Emma! Focus!”

Belle let out an incredulous laugh.“It’s not a disaster if you don’t wear a trench coat, you self-centered, spoiled—”

“You shrill, bossy—”

“—childish, egotistical—”

“—nasty, cold-hearted—”

“—prima donna son of a bitch!”

“— _midget!”_

Belle gasped. “How dare you!”

“How dare _you!”_ Killian spat back.

“Guys!” Emma exclaimed. “I don’t have time for this! Everybody get out, I need to think!”

Belle shot Killian a withering look before turning on her heel and stalking out. Killian didn’t move; he stood still, the glare on his face softening as he realized Emma was actually stressed about something other than his costume changes.

“What’s wrong with you, Swan? Your face is all… _growly._ ”

“It’s Gold,” Emma grumbled. 

“Who?”

“ _Gold,_ Rumford Gold! The new bossman!”

Killian’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, God…did he fire you?”

“No, but he’s making cuts, and he wants me to get rid of one of the writers.” Emma looked up at him miserably. “I can’t fire someone, they’ll mutiny against me.”

“Jeff?”

“I _can’t!_ ” Emma said wildly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do! He’s bringing in this new girl—Rory Something-Or-Other—and she’s ‘ _star quality’_ , so he’s cutting people to make room in the budget for her—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” Killian interrupted, holding up his hand. “Rory _Phillips?”_

“What? Yeah, something like that—”

“ _Rory Phillips?”_ he repeated angrily. “The former child-star, turned Broadway, turned small-screen?”

“Yeah,” Emma said, a little surprised. “He wants to bring her on the show.”

“Bring her on—?” Killian broke off, choking on his rage. “You mean…a _co-star?_ ”

“We’re all making sacrifices, Kil,” Emma said through her teeth.

“ _UGH!”_ Killian flung his head back to glower at the ceiling. “I can’t _believe_ this! Can you imagine what I must be going through right now?”

“My condolences.”

“And you!” Killian sat up, looking at her with sudden sympathy. “They’ll have your head, Swan! They’ll run a bloody mutiny against you!”

“I know, I already said that.” Emma buried her head in her hands, sighing heavily. “I don’t know what to do here.”

They sat in silence, contemplating the disaster of their situation, the only sound coming from Killian’s fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest. 

“Coffee,” he said finally.

“What?” Emma lifted her head, squinting at him. “The hell are you talking about?”

“It’s a caffeine-charged hot beverage brewed from the exotic coffee bean,” Killian said, nonplussed. “Affectionately known as ‘java’, ‘cuppa Joe’, ‘jitter juice’—”

“Concept grasped, thank you,” Emma said dryly. “What does this have to do with my impending doom?”

“Nothing. It’s time for my morning mocha.” Killian stood up with a little sigh, carefully brushing his hair back. “I’d’ve sent Ruby, but I could use some fresh air. Come with me, and I’ll buy you a donut or a bagel or whatever complex carbs tickle your fancy today.”

“Okay,” Emma shrugged, pushing back from her chair to grab her coat. Perhaps a little burst of caffeine would give her some inspiration on how to deal with Gold.

“Be a lady, Swan—hold the door open for me.”

“Of course. We wouldn't want you to strain yourself.” Emma yanked the door open, and swept him a deep, mocking bow. “No, no, please—after _you._ ”

Killian glided through the door, his chin held high with an air of regality; Emma followed, somewhat less gracefully.

“Grabbing a coffee break,” she said, in response to the raised eyebrows she got from Jefferson and Merlin. “Keep working on that clown sketch, I’ll be back in ten.”

“Bring me back a scone,” Jeff called after her.

“And a latte,” Merlin added. 

“Will do.”

She always felt mildly embarrassed, walking alongside Killian with his long, dramatic strides. It was like she was part of his entourage while he went around, _prima donna_ screaming from every gesture he made, practically flicking a feather boa over his shoulder. Killian made a decent buck for the company, but he wasn't nearly so large a star as he seemed to think: but then, stardom was more about ego and nerve than actual talent—and ego and nerve, Kil had plenty of.

Tact, however, was something he was _definitely_ lacking in, Emma reflected dryly as they made their way down to the lobby, headed for the coffee stand. Trust “ _Milady_ ” (as she privately called him) to take offense at the mere suggestion of a costar, then abruptly forget Emma’s concerns in favor of his caffeine needs. Had she not had caffeine needs of her own, she would have torched his autographed photo of Beyonce. 

“I think I’m feeling a bagel today,” Emma decided as they turned down the hallway. “Maybe a blueberry one. And a hot chocolate. With whipped cream.”

Killian scoffed. “Do you know how many calories—?”

“Do I _care_ how many calories?” Emma countered. “Besides, you said…”

She stopped, her insides freezing as she realized who was behind the coffee counter today. _Oh, damn it,_ she thought. _Oh, damn it, damn it,_ damn _it!_

“Emma?” Killian frowned, turning half-way around when he realized she wasn't moving. “Coffee’s this way, why are you stopping?”

“It’s Cute Bagel Guy.”

“What?”

“Cute Bagel Guy!” she hissed. “That’s him, that’s the guy I was telling you about!”

Killian turned his head to take another look at the scruffy, dark-haired man behind the counter. “I don’t recognize him. Is he new?”

“Yes, he’s new! Don’t you remember anything I told you?” Emma snapped. “Do you listen at all when I talk? I’ve neurotically discussed this at least seven times in the past thirty-six hours!”

“If he’s new, he’s not going to know how to make my mocha the right way,” Killian said worriedly. “He’ll probably use the full-fat milk, the real sugar…that whipped cream that tastes like lightly sugared pillow fluff.”

“Hey!” Emma smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “This is not about you! This is about me, right now!”

“I thought it was about New Guy.”

“It’s about me _and_ New Guy—and he’s not ‘New Guy’, he’s ‘Cute Bagel Guy’.”

“Why do you call him ‘Cute Bagel Guy’? Does ‘cute’ refer to the bagels or the guy?”

“The guy, obviously—you seriously don’t remember anything I told you?”

“Was it about me?”

“No, it was about Cute Bagel Guy.”

“Then why would I remember?”

“Because you’re supposed to be my best friend?”

“‘Supposed to be…’ Oh, but, Swan, that phrase indicates constraints of morality, and you _know_ how I feel about constraints of morality!”

“I know how you feel about constraints of morality.”

“What if I’m playing a character with _no_ morality? I cannot bind myself to operating within society’s bounds of decency! To do that, would be first-degree murder to the arts!”

“Just forget it, okay?” Emma said exasperatedly. “Get me a blueberry bagel, a latte and a scone, and meet me upstairs.”

Killian knit his brow. “Are you avoiding Cute Bagel Guy or something?”

“Yes, and if you bothered to pay attention, you’d _know_ that.”

“Well…” Killian stole another glance over his shoulder, where Cute Bagel Guy was busy mixing up a couple of iced coffees for a customer. “Tell me now, so I can decide whether or not it’s worth pushing you to talk to him.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Before I lose interest, Swan, hurry up.”

Emma hesitated for a moment, shifting on her feet. “I went British.”

“Sorry?”

“I went British,” she repeated, spectacularly humiliated. “Last Monday. I was in a rush, so I was already kind of flustered. I get up to the counter and there’s this guy, this amazing guy with a pretty face and an ironic T-shirt, surrounded by bread and pastries—”

“Everything you ever wanted in a man,” Killian nodded.

“Of course. So naturally, I panicked when he asked me what I wanted, and I went British. I asked for a bagel in a British accent, and…” Emma closed her eyes, exhaling. “I think I called him ‘ducky’.”

“You called him—?” Killian threw back his head, laughing hysterically. “ _You called him ‘ducky’?”_

“Shut up!” Emma hissed furiously, looking around with wide eyes. “People are staring!”

“What, did you think it would impress him? Oh, God…Thank you, Emma. this is exactly what I needed to cheer me up.” Killian beamed at the ceiling, pressing two fingers to his lips and sending a kiss to the heavens. “Lord, I thank you for sending me Emma Swan. I will never again question your love for me.”

“You’re a jerk,” Emma said witheringly. 

“I _love_ being friends with you,” Killian said, slinging his arm around her shoulder as he started walking toward the coffee stand. Emma frantically tried to pull away, but Killian ignored her efforts, choosing instead to prop up her confidence with comments like, “I feel so much better about myself around you” and “I admire you, Swan: for not giving up and killing yourself. It takes a lot of courage to face the humiliation of your existence day after day after day.”

“Please stop talking!” she begged in a desperate whisper as they reached the stand, perfectly within earshot of Cute Bagel Guy. “Don’t do this to me, Kil, _please.”_

“I’m helping you,” Killian muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “You’ll thank me for this, Swan. Hello!” he said brightly, directing his attention to Cute Bagel Guy. 

Cute Bagel Guy—who, Emma noticed, was wearing a name-tag that said: “Neal” ( _Ahh….Neal,_ she thought dreamily)—looked up with raised eyebrows. “Morning,” he said, tapping a few buttons on the register. “What can I get you?”

Killian dropped his arm from Emma’s shoulders and absently wiped his hand down his jacket, as though brushing something distasteful off. “How skilled are you at making customized mochas?” he asked.

“Uh…” Neal looked at him, as if trying to determine whether or not he was joking. “Fairly skilled?”

“Mmm-hmm, mmm-hmm,” Killian murmured, nodding in approval. “Well, then—” he made a show of checking the name-tag—“ _Neal,_ is it? I would like a fat-free, Splenda-sweetened mocha, no whip. And my _girlfriend_ here—”

“ _Girlfriend?_ ” Emma whispered furiously, looking at him with wide eyes. “What the hell are you doing? I’m not his girlfriend,” she said quickly, turning to Neal. “He’s a compulsive liar. He’s not my boyfriend. I-I don’t have one of those.”

“Hey,” Neal frowned, slowly pointing a finger at her. “What happened to your accent?”

“I don’t have one of those, either,” Emma said, red-faced.

“But…” Neal shook his head. “No, no, I remember you. You definitely had an accent before.”

“I assimilated,” Emma said queasily, feeling the blood rush to her head. 

“In two days?”

“Thirty-six hours, actually,” she said quietly. 

“What?”

“Be more pathetic, Swan, I dare you,” Killian muttered through his teeth.

“I’ll take a bagel,” she said abruptly.

Neal blinked, startled. Killian exhaled exasperatedly. 

“Nice segway, that sounded very natural,” he said under his breath. 

“A blueberry bagel,” Emma went on. “All blueberries. Just…blueberry all day, every day.” It seemed she had no control over her mouth right now, it was just running of its own accord: finding words and spitting them out. “Blueberry bagel, and throw in a hot chocolate. With whipped cream. A-and cinnamon. And whipped cream—wait, did I already say that?”

“Yep,” Neal said, punching her order in.

“And a latte. That one’s not for me, it’s for my friend, Toofer. I mean, ‘Merlin’—his name isn't actually ‘Toofer’, we just call him that sometimes. And I don’t mean _friend—_ he works for me. He _is_ my friend, but I’m also his boss. B-but I’m not a mean boss, I’m a nice boss. that’s why I do things like picking up lattes for my friend, Toofer. Who works for me. I mean, Jefferson. I mean, Toofer works for me, but the latte might be for Jefferson. Who also works for me. Or did he want a bagel? Was it a bagel? No, wait, _I_ wanted the bagel. Jefferson wanted the scone. Or Toofer. Not that he wanted Toofer—mind you, Toofer is pretty sexy, so maybe he does, but I don’t think Jeff is gay. I meant, maybe Toofer wanted the scone, and Jefferson wanted the latte. But between the two of them, Toofer seems more likely to want the latte. Who wanted the hot chocolate again?”

“That was you,” Neal said, lifting his eyebrows. 

“Was it?” Emma said nervously. “Oh. Okay. Well, good, then I don’t have to order two. Unless you want one, Killian?”

“I’ve got my mocha, _ducky.”_

Emma dug her elbow in his ribs, and hissed, “You’re not helping _._ ”

“No. I’m not,” Killian agreed, nonplussed. 

“I’m already sinking here, was that so very necessary?”

“Not necessary so much as enjoyable. I haven't had a full-fat mocha in _years,_ love, and everyone deserves a treat now and again.”

“At my expense?”

“No, but you make it so easy. I barely have to expend any effort at all.”

“Oh, that’s nice—”

Neal cleared his throat. “So, is that all?” he asked, his finger still hovering over the screen. “Skinny mocha, latte, scone, hot chocolate with whip and cinnamon, and a blueberry bagel with emphasis on the blueberries?”

“That’s all,” Killian said swiftly, stepping in front of Emma. “Here, take a twenty and keep the change. Buy yourself something pretty.”

Neal raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything as he took the twenty and slipped it into the register. “Drinks’ll be out in a minute,” he told them, and started pulling out syrups and milk to pour into the blender. 

Emma closed her eyes, letting out a slow breath. _God, that was humiliating,_ she thought. Killian bumped her with his elbow, silently agreeing with her. 

It was bad enough that she had to deal with Gold and a potential mutiny from her remaining writers; but now, she had so thoroughly embarrassed herself in front of Neal, she could never buy coffee here again. She was going to have to track down another coffee stand, and avoid this one like the plague, or she would literally die of humiliation. 

“Here you go,” Neal said, sliding their orders over the counter. “That’s one skinny mocha with Splenda and no whip, a latte, hot chocolate with cinnamon and whip, a scone, and a blueberry-studded bagel.”

“Thank you,” Killian said, plucking his drink up. He took an experimental sip, frowning slightly as he swilled it around in his mouth. “This is…” He paused to take another careful sip, swallowed, then nodded his head. “Yes, this is to my satisfaction.”

“Great.”  Neal turned to Emma, a little smirk playing around the corner of his mouth. _You believe this guy?_ his eyes said. “You want to give your chocolate a taste, make sure it’s up to standards?”

Emma blinked. “Um—I—chocolate—uh—”

“I’m going to head back,” Killian said, rescuing her from her stammers and buying her time to collect her thoughts. “Meet you up there, Swan?”

“Yeah, see you,” Emma said.

Killian glanced at Neal to make sure he wasn't looking before turning back to Emma with a thumbs-up. _You got this!_ he mouthed.

Emma smiled halfheartedly, raising her hand in farewell as he started walking backwards. _I don’t “got this.” I’ve never “got this”. My entire life, I’ve never—not once—“got this”._

“So, uh—” Neal cleared his throat, not looking up as he wiped down the counter—“that guy really your boyfriend?”

“What, Killian? No. Oh, God, no.” Emma shook her head, laughing nervously. “No, no, no, no, no. Definitely not my boyfriend.”

“Hmm,” Neal nodded slowly. “Interesting.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “ _Interesting”? Why is that interesting? He did say “interesting”, right? Did he say “interesting”? Wait, what’s happening here? Oh, God, I’m freaking out. I am_ FREAKING _OUT._

She tried to think of something to say— _anything_ to say—wracking her brains for any small memory of the English language, but her mind was blank. She couldn't think, not with the word “interesting” rolling around in her head.

“So…” Neal finally put down the cloth, and braced his hands on the counter, looking at the remaining cups and and pastry wrappers. “You, uh—” he nodded at them—“you want your stuff there?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, my stuff. Let me just—” Emma reached out quickly, trying to snap it all up in swoop. But that proved to be a disastrous mistake, as Neal also reached out, preparing to help her gather it into her hands; hands collided against the cups, slopping hot chocolate and latte over the sides and—

“Gah!” Neal yelped, clapping his hand over his burnt arm.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry!” Emma cried. “Here, let me help—”

“No!” Neal said immediately, looking up with wide eyes. “I mean, no. I-I got this, okay?” He gave her a strained smile, backing away slowly. “I’m—I’m gonna get some ice.”

“I’m sorry,” she tried again.

“Yeah, no, I know, I’m just…” Neal winced, cradling his arm. “I think I need medical attention.”

Emma watched him leave, heaving a dejected sigh, She looked down at the puddle of scalding brown liquid, and slowly stepped away from the stand. 

 _This day just keeps getting better and better,_ she groaned, fighting the urge to hide behind her hands in the elevator. Was it her destiny to live the life of the stereotypical, disaster-prone rom-com girl (obviously, _pre-_ gorgeous-charming-guy-comes-to-her-rescue phase. She’d just spilled hot chocolate over the last one)? Did her life really suck that much, did she just suck at living at it?

The elevator dinged open, but she was the only one unimportant enough to be on such a low floor. It wasn't until she was already halfway down the hall to her office that she realized she had a huge stain on her shirt: backsplash from the chocolate she’d burnt Neal with. 

“Perfect,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “Just _perfect._ ”

She stalked down the rest of the way, sending glowers at anyone who crossed her path. Ruby scampered away with a little whimper; Merlin dove behind the printer. Even Jefferson had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and hide behind his laptop. 

Her life was a _mess._ All day, she dealt with snarky writers, stupid interns, demanding network bosses, egotistical actors. The set’s wrong, the script’s not done, the costume doesn't fit—get it together, Miss Swan! This is a business, not a middle school theater production! 

The highlight of her day had been getting her coffee and a bagel, and now even _that_ was ruined! Everything here was a mess! It seemed like her sanity was popping stitches at this point, the seams on her brain splitting and letting madness and chaos escape!

“Hey, Emma,” Leroy said through half a salami sandwich, strolling down the hall. “What do you think of—?”

“YOU’RE FIRED, LEROY!” she burst out. 

Leroy blinked, stunned. “What?”

“I said, you’re fired!” Emma snapped. She glared around the room at all the wide-eyed stares, taking a savage pride in the fear on their faces. “Yeah, that’s right!” she went on. “You’re _fired!_ I can do that! You know why? Because I’m your _boss,_ Leroy! And _my_ boss wants me to get rid of one of you, so you know what? I pick _you!”_

 _“_ Emma,” Leroy said, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t understand—did I do something wrong?”

“ _YES!”_ she cried exasperatedly. “Yes, Leroy, you did something wrong! You’re _always_ doing something wrong! You’re always eating sandwiches and leaving pickles and salami trails everywhere you go! You never refill the coffee after you drain it! You never apologize for eating the last donut in the break room! You always wear that _stupid_ hat and that _ugly_ flannel—you look like a lumberjack who still lives at home with his parents on their pickle-and-salami farm! And you know what else?” She took a breather, still glowering. “You’re not _funny!_ You don’t know how to write a sketch show, because you’re not funny, or remotely clever or even _slightly_ entertaining! So pack up your desk, Leroy, and go send some other show’s ratings down!”

With that, she stalked past him the rest of the way into her office, slamming the door shut behind her. She kicked her chair away from the desk and threw her head in her hands, glaring through her fingers at the paper-infested desk. 

 _I just fired Leroy,_ she realized. _I called him an untalented, salami-scarfing lumberjack. In front of everyone, I literally_ screamed _about salami._

Well, at least she’d gotten the firing Gold had ordered out of the way.

But _Leroy…_

And she screamed about _salami,_ of all things.

Not to mention, gave Neal severe burns from her hot chocolate. _Which_ she had ordered in the most ludicrously embarrassing rant that ever escaped a person’s mouth. 

And after all this, she still had to deal with _T.G.I.F_ drama: Killian and Belle’s feud over the trench coat; the extra work her remaining writers were going to have to do to fill Leroy’s place; dealing with Gold and Regina Mills in general…

Finding a new coffee place.

And this shirt that she’d _just_ gotten (eight years ago) was ruined.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, pulling her out of the melancholy saturating her brain. Emma heaved a sigh, and got up from her chair to pull the door open.

Gold stood on the doorway, beaming at her. Emma slumped against the door, groaning.

“Mr. Gold, you’re crashing my pity party. I was just going to pull out the tiny violin.”

“Never mind that, Swan. I need to talk to you,” he said, walking right past her. Emma closed her eyes briefly and shut the door behind him; with a weary sigh, she folded her arms over her chest and followed him in.

“What is it now?” 

Gold turned around, the brilliant smile still lighting up his face. “I just heard the way you fired that Leroy fellow.” He clapped his hands together and let out a cackle. “My _God,_ Swan! You’re vicious!”

Emma lifted her eyebrows. “What?”

“I _knew_ there was something about you that I liked!” Gold said delightedly, waggling a finger at her. “You remind me of my first wife. A raging bitch, but _damn,_ she knew how to get things done! I admire that, Miss Swan. It’s so rare to find a person who understands the necessity of crushing a person’s heart when business is on the line! So many people are consumed by their conscious—but not you! You’re a _shark!_ ”

Emma felt her heart sink further in her chest. “Crushing a person’s heart?” she repeated whimperingly. 

“You know, I have to say, I didn't think you had it in you,” Gold said thoughtfully. “I thought you were going to try some ridiculous way to get me to change my mind or find a way around the budget, but you surprised me! Congratulations—not many people can say they’ve surprised me! But you _did_ it, Swan!” He stuck out his hand, beaming at her. “I think, this is going to be the beginning of a _beautiful_ friendship, don't you think?”

Emma looked at his hand for a minute, then reluctantly unfolded her own to shake it. “I guess so,” she sighed.


End file.
